


Point of Maximal Impulse

by Smirkdoctor (orphan_account)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Medical School
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-07
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-08-20 00:10:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8229538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/Smirkdoctor
Summary: Today was the first standardized patient interaction, and John was nervous, and very nearly late. He knew it was silly, but the act of finally introducing himself as “Doctor Watson”, of laying hands on another living, breathing human aside from his learning partner for physical exam maneuvers...in a medical capacity...well, it felt huge.He took one last deep breath and rapped three times on the door of exam room 221-B, listening for acknowledgement from the patient within.“Oh, do come in,” drawled the richest baritone voice John had ever heard.





	1. Point of Maximal Impulse

**Author's Note:**

> This work is un-beta'd and un-Brit-picked (although I did do a fair bit of research on differences in medical education between the US and UK). I just felt like I needed to tell the story of John Watson becoming a doctor post haste, so I own any and all mistakes. Please let me know about any typos, etc via the comments.

John Watson clutched his Littmann Cardiology stethoscope in one hand, the nylon handle of his gym bag in the other, and sprinted the last fifty metres to the large marble entrance of the medical school. He really wasn’t surprised that he zoned out while on the treadmill reviewing his anatomy flash cards. This year had seen a giant uptick in the intensity of his studies with the introduction of medical coursework, and there was just so much information to get lost in. He found solace in physical activity, and it often seemed that when his pores opened to release sweat, his mind opened to absorb knowledge.

Today was the first standardized patient interaction, and John was nervous, and very nearly late. He knew it was silly, but the act of _finally_ introducing himself as “Doctor Watson”, of laying hands on another living, breathing human aside from his learning partner for physical exam maneuvers...in a medical capacity...well, it felt huge. That pressure plus the quick shower he had taken in the student gym and his quick jaunt across campus had him sweating.

This first patient experience represented the culmination of years of concentrated effort, of focusing all his attention on his studies instead of rugby matches and pub crawls. This was the first day of the life he had earned through all-nighters before his A-levels, his first chance to prove to his family that he wasn’t a fuck-up like Harry.

 _Knock, wait to be acknowledged, open door, introduction, hand sanitizer, shake hands, chief complaint, review of systems, general assessment, cardiac exam, lung exam, state findings and plan, closing remarks._ John reviewed the seemingly complicated steps under his breath. They called this standard for a reason. The experience was simplified, a chance to learn the complex skill of the physical exam on a healthy patient so that someday, the litany of steps would flow naturally, reflexively, allowing his brain to focus on the complex work of diagnosis and treatment selection.

John shoved his bag under his desk in the study carrels then straightened his collar, smoothed his fluffy blonde hair against his forehead, and squared his shoulders. _It’s fine. It’s all fine_ , he told himself over slow, timed inhales and exhales.

_Cardiac exam: patient seated, diaphragm of stethoscope over each valve in turn-- aortic, pulmonic, tricuspid, mitral-- listening for the first and second heart sounds. Bell on the apex to assess for murmurs. Recline patient on the table to 30 degrees head tilt, listen again. Assess for jugular venous distension. Palpate point of maximal impulse._

“Oi, mate, you look ready to drop!” Mike Stamford said in a jolly tone as he slapped a hand on John’s right shoulder and guided him through the door into the clinical simulation area. “It’s fine, Johnny. Remember, this is ‘formative’, after all.” Mike pantomimed air quotations with his stocky hands, a grin plumping his ruddy cheeks. “After this is over, how about we grab a couple _formative_ pints at that pub across the street from the flat?”

John found himself smiling, too. Mike was right, after all. This “exam” was pass/fail, designed more to allow the new medical class to try on the role of physician than to evaluate their diagnostic skill. All he had to do was not embarrass himself. 

He took another measured breath, settling the smooth black plastic of the stethoscope around his neck, and clapped Mike on the back in return. They walked into the narrow hallway of closed doors leading to the miniature exam rooms. John came to a stop in front of the door numbered 221-A.

“I’ll thank you to step away from my door, Johnny Boy.” Mike pushed his friend over to the next room jokingly, claiming the first door in the hall for himself and turning to wink at John.

 _Oh well,_ John thought, _I don’t suppose it makes a bit of difference._ He took one last deep breath and rapped three times on the door of exam room 221-B, listening for acknowledgement from the patient within.

“Oh, do come in,” drawled the richest baritone voice John had ever heard.

***********************

Sherlock Holmes sat on an uncomfortable exam table in only his pants and a thin cotton gown in a freezing cold, sterile exam room at King’s College School of Medical Education, hating his brother Mycroft with every synapse in his large, hyperactive brain. What kind of _big brother_ didn’t step in to pay for new lab equipment and dorm repairs caused by a _tiny_ chemistry accident? 

It had been two weeks since Sherlock’s latest experiment had rather unfortunately caught fire and exploded. All of Sherlock’s allowance for this semester had gone to the college to repair the room’s furniture and walls, and Sherlock simply couldn’t ask Mummy for more. And, of course, bloody Mycroft wouldn’t contribute a quid toward the purchase of a new titration apparatus.

Sherlock inhaled deeply. It was simply _unacceptable_ to let two weeks pass without a single completed reaction outside his boring second-year chemistry classes. The boredom had lead him to paint a mocking smiley face on the newly-painted cinderblock wall above his bed. Honestly, what was it like inside the funny little brains of his classmates? He exhaled on a sigh, mentally computing the number of doddering medical students he would have to allow to poke and prod at him before he could afford to replace his home chemistry lab.

Three quick, efficient knocks sounded from the other side of the door. Sherlock closed his eyes and let the deductions rush over him. _Male, left handed but using his right to knock secondary to a left shoulder injury. Approximately 167 centimeters tall...nervous._ He opened his eyes and deigned to speak.

“Oh, do come in,” Sherlock said, crossing his long, lean legs. His eyes stopped mid-roll as the door opened to reveal a short-statured but muscular man with deep blue eyes, a nervous smile, and an absolutely beautiful face.

***********************

John fumbled with the supplied clipboard, hastily switching it to nestle beneath his right arm as he turned toward the exam table, schooling his face into a professional, detached half-smile. 

“Hello, I’m Doctor John Wat...” The end of his last name slipped off the back of his tongue and forced him to swallow before finishing the introduction. The young man sitting, somehow regally, on the tall table in the center of the room, was striking. The gown did nothing to make him appear smaller, rather it accented his long, pale form. His face was also long, dramatic, and pale, crowned by a shining mess of nearly black curls. 

John’s eyes dropped to the young man’s mouth, a moue the likes of which he had only seen on female royalty. The right corner of that mouth twisted slightly, and John’s gaze was pulled upward to pale eyes whose color could not be defined. But the look in the eyes, caught in flux between bewilderment, amusement, and a deep, soul-level recognition, was what brought the end of his name back to mind, “...son.” He cleared his throat, starting again. “That’s Dr. Watson.” He glanced down at the clipboard, reminding himself of the name that he had read just before opening the door. “It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes.”

John shook his head slightly, attempting to bring himself back into the present moment. For the barest second, he had felt displaced and solidly at home all at once, secure in the knowledge that he was where he needed to be, where the universe had deemed he fit best. _A good sign, that._ John thought as he pulled the nozzle of the hand sanitizer suspended at shoulder height next to the door, dispensing the foam into his hands, then rubbing them together in a manner he hoped looked confident and efficient. He set his clipboard on the counter beside a computer screen displaying the time allotted for this interaction. Fourteen minutes thirty seconds and counting. “What brings you to the office today?”

The standardized patient took his offered right hand and shook it briefly. Those opal eyes bore into him and that deep, dark voice, the only voice that could ever have come from this most peculiar person, filled the room. “It’s my understanding that I’m here for your education. Deduce my health, _Doctor Watson_.”

John swallowed again. Why did Mike have to switch doors with him? He could faintly hear Mike laughing his way through an apparently smooth interaction with a young woman in the next room. _Great,_ thought John, _Mike is having a jolly time auscultating and palpating around on a girl, and I’m stuck with a poncy bloke who’s out to make this difficult for me._

“Ah, so…” John laughed, then cleared his throat, “no complaints today, then. Just an examination.”

“It remains to be seen if I have any...complaints,” the man replied haughtily. “But please, call me Sherlock.”

At this statement, John glanced at the clock again. 13:45. _Better get a move on._ He sat on the rolling stool, grabbing the clipboard and balancing it on his crossed legs. “Right,” he said, ruffling the sheet of paper containing demographics, a temperature reading (afebrile), weight, height, and blood pressure. “So, _Sherlock,_ you’re a healthy nineteen year old male...no significant illnesses or hospitalizations in your past?”

Sherlock blinked quickly, dropping John’s gaze, and murmured, “No, not as such.”

“Not on any medication, and not allergic to anything?”

“No prescription medication. And the only chemicals I’ve ever reacted badly to are generally classified as toxic.” The half-smile was back on the full lips although the man’s eyes remained directed toward the floor.

It was John’s turn to blink. He didn’t suppose it mattered in this context, why the hell a bloke his age would be mucking around with toxic chemicals. _A student? Possibly a chemist._

“Um...yes. And you’re feeling well.”

“I believe we established that, yes,” Sherlock’s mock annoyance betrayed amusement, and John found himself smiling as he took a deep breath.

“Yes. Well. Good.” John jotted quick notes on his clipboard: no acute distress, well-developed ( _fit_ , his brain helpfully supplied), _clearly_ alert and oriented to the situation, time, and place. The listed vital signs seemed well within expected values. “Let’s see what I can _deduce_ about your heart, then.” John returned the smirking volley from earlier, slipping the stethoscope off his neck and rising to stand on Sherlock’s left side as he positioned the rubber earpieces and gently tapped on the larger side of the two-headed stethoscope.

***********************

Sherlock blinked rapidly as the student doctor turned to grab his clipboard and settled onto the rolling stool. Usually he found other people to be so dull. Pedestrian. But there was something about this compact man, with his stiff posture and his warm, strong handshake (slightly tacky from the alcohol foam; should have rubbed his hands for three more seconds). Thinking back over their conversation, Sherlock blushed. He had practically *flirted* with John. He attempted to slow his racing heart by timing his inhales and exhales, making them equal as he tried to continue his deductions.

But then this man, this _John Watson_ , looked up at him with blue eyes deep in colour and empathy and Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat and his focus slid to lips that were, apparently, asking him questions. Something about past hospitalizations.

The past. Hospitalization. His chest deflated and he dropped his eyes to his bare shins. Three separate doors in his mind palace slammed shut and Sherlock made his lips a thin line, shifting slightly to ensure the gown covered his antecubital fossae. “No,” he half-lied. His week-long stay at Mycroft’s this past summer might have been a rehabilitation of sorts, but it was _not_ a hospitalization. “Not as such.”

Sherlock answered the next couple of questions without thinking as he worked again at slowing his heart, timing his breaths. He had nearly succeeded when Dr. Watson rose to standing and placed his stethoscope on the right side of Sherlock’s sternum.

He felt his pulse surge at the touch. It felt uncomfortable, invasive. Intimate. His eyes shot to John’s face and noted that the medical student looked perplexed, then concerned. John quickly moved the stethoscope to the left side of the sternum, then lower and even more to the left, pausing for roughly ten seconds in each position. His eyebrows drew together and down, his lips pursed slightly into a worried kiss. John removed the stethoscope from his ears and shifted to extend the leg-rest beneath Sherlock’s naked calves. His warm, calloused hand ghosted over Sherlock’s left outer knee and _oh_ , wasn’t that the least convenient touch ever?

John met his eyes, cleared his throat, “Um, if you could...recline? It will help me get a better idea what exactly I’m hearing.”

Sherlock leaned back against the rustling paper covering a plastic pillow. His hands gripped the edges of the table next to his thighs, and he squeezed his eyes closed and concentrated all his mental energy on calming his fight-or-flight response.

It was no use. John moved back toward his head, this time placing what Sherlock supposed was intended to be a comforting hand on his shoulder. John bent slightly at the knees and pushed Sherlock’s jaw to the right, gazing at his neck.

 _Bloody hell_ , thought Sherlock as small puffs of John’s breath hit his carotid pulse. John moved his left hand to just below and to the side of Sherlock’s left nipple and _pressed_ and it took everything Sherlock had to not gasp in surprise, alarm, arousal. John’s frowning face turned from his neck to focus on his hand, watching it move slightly with the force of Sherlock’s heartbeat.

“Do you have a history of a heart condition, Sherlock?” John turned concerned ocean eyes back and Sherlock shook his head minutely, not daring to speak or even breathe. “Because, well, you’re tachycardic. And your point of maximal impulse…” he pressed in with his left hand and shifted it slightly back and forth, as if Sherlock needed a reminder of the searing contact, “...it’s, well, it’s bounding.”

Sherlock pressed his eyes closed, damning his brother, himself, the field of chemistry, and his overzealous experimentation for bringing him here tonight. He cursed his body’s chemistry, simple and destructive, the adrenergic response making his heart race. He cursed everything in the world except John. Never John Watson.

***********************

 _Oh what the buggering fuck?_ John heard the elevated rate and didn’t believe it. This Sherlock fellow looked calm. He certainly wasn’t panting or sweating like he just finished some strenuous activity or illicit drug use.

 _Right. Check the other valves. Rotate the stethoscope head, two clicks to ensure the diaphragm was set to auscultate. No, pulse still elevated. Nearly 120 beats per minute._ John frowned, then moved down the table to prepare for his patient to lie back. 

“Um...if you could recline…” John watched as Sherlock settled back on the table. He stooped slightly to allow the light to hit the carotid artery. The pulse was smooth and rapid. John glanced again at Sherlock’s shapely lips, noting that, although thinned from being pressed together, they remained pink. No pallor. 

John’s hand moved automatically to the apex of the heart, the point of maximal impulse. And between the fourth and fifth rib on the left side of Sherlock Holmes’s chest, John Watson felt a quick, strong, steady beat positively drumming against his palm. He quickly asked if Sherlock had a heart condition, then frowned when no rational explanation presented itself.

 _Perhaps he’s high? He seemed lucid..._ John considered Sherlock’s face again, not thinking about his phrasing as he repeated the question. “So no one has ever told you there was anything wrong with your heart?”

Sherlock’s closed eyes popped fully open, pinning John with an intensely lonely gaze, and the deep voice quipped, “Not medically.” John found he had to look away from that deep sadness, and glanced at the countdown. 

_Bollocks._ Seven minutes, and he still had to wrap up and write a note.John nodded, removing his hand from where it was still warming Sherlock’s chest, then helped this patient back to sitting and grabbed the clipboard to make rapid notes. 

“Well, then...mate. I don’t know what exactly the matter is, but I’m going to discuss your case with my supervising physician.” He stood, shook Sherlock’s long-fingered hand again, and marched to the door. As he dispensed more alcohol foam into his hands, he turned and regarded Sherlock once more with concern. “Maybe...get an electrocardiogram? Talk to your family about a history of heart disease?” 

The gangly young man’s head was bowed, and his lips tipped up a bit, as he said, “Thank you... _Doctor_.” John grasped the cold door handle and pulled it open.

He pulled down the wall-mounted table and jots a quick SOAP note, recording his assessment of sinus tachycardia, differential diagnosis of supraventricular vs re-entrant, possibly related to dehydration or exogenous substances, and his plan for blood tests and an EKG. He smiled vacantly as he and Mike walked to the proctor station to hand in their work, sparing a short glance back at the door labelled B.

***********************

An hour later at the pub across from his flat, John checked in with Sarah, his physical exam partner, who, as it turned out, had also seen the patient in 221-B. She maintained that there was absolutely nothing wrong with the bloke thirty minutes after John’s evaluation, aside from his attitude.

Mike laughed into his pint, lowering it and saying, “That’s part of it too, mate! Getting used to interacting with the colorful, varied masses. Arsing it up occasionally.”

Sarah and Mike laughed and John considered as he sipped his lager. No one else seemed worried. Why did John feel...a bit...not good?

***********************

 

Alright, visual aids.

 

Here are John's anatomy flash-cards. These are the same ones I had, based on the Netter atlas. They're soooo detailed and very helpful:

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/netter_zpslu5a6s7v.jpg.html) 

Med students knocking on their standard patient exam room doors:

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/knockinf_zpsqbltwqyj.jpg.html) 

Tiny exam rooms for SP experiences:

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/tiny%20exam%20room_zps0k8d15ys.gif.html) 

Proctors watching the interactions:

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/sp_zpsaxgtk4go.jpg.html) 

Palpating the point of maximal impulse:

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/pmi%20palpation_zpsjzr5inhi.png.html) 


	2. Chordae Tendineae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John encounters Sherlock in dissection lab, and is treated to a quick review of cardiac anatomy as well as an enumeration of his motivations for attending medical school. How in the world does this odd man know so much about him?

John sighed and pulled the formalin-scented scrubs on over his head. He rolled his stiff left shoulder slightly, using his right hand to dig into the sore muscle. _Supraspinatus_ , he reminded himself. Remembering anatomy was, after all, the point of tonight. 

The first standardized patient experience had not been as disastrous as John expected. The patient... _Sherlock_...had given him full marks for professionalism and rapport, and his note, if seemingly based on erroneous physical exam findings, had followed the correct format and earned him a passing grade. With the announcement that no one in the class needed remediation based on the first SP interaction, John had breathed a sigh of relief and then turned his attention toward the next hurdle: the first anatomy examination.

The test next Tuesday would consist of thirty timed stations of questions related to medical imaging, specimens, and pro-sections of the human body, with a focus on the portion of anatomy the class had finished dissecting: the thoracic and abdominal cavities. John didn’t feel as sure of his knowledge as he would like, so he had decided to dedicate his Friday night to reviewing his dissection thus far. Mike and Sarah had taken the piss a bit when John begged off from their usual pub night, but John knew he wouldn’t be able to enjoy any revelry before he proved to the doubting Greek chorus in his mind that he knew this material.

He closed his locker and slid his plastic goggles into place, then stepped up to the anatomy lab door and entered the punch code--7437. As he muscled open the heavy barrier, he noted that the motion-sensitive lights were already on. _Makes sense._ _I can’t be the only one feeling the pressure to study tonight._

John made his way past glass cases of specimens toward the back left corner of the room, his nose already habituating to the thick, burning, oddly sweet smell of the preserving agent. As he approached the metal stand around which his anatomy group worked for nine hours weekly, his feet stopped short, sneakers squeaking on the tiled floor. 

Standing over his group’s sheet-covered cadaver was a tall, posh, curly-haired man _in a fucking suit_. In his long-fingered hands, thankfully covered by blue nitrile gloves, Sherlock Holmes held a human heart.

“What are you…” John’s question trailed off as he stepped closer, eyeing the perfectly dissected and labelled specimen in Sherlock’s grip. It’s all there, with ties around the trunks of the inferior and superior vena cavae, the right atrium and ventricle cut open to reveal the tricuspid valve and the papillary muscles. “That’s...amazing. We hadn’t even started to dissect the heart yet.”

Sherlock turned with a slight smile, not seeming at all surprised to find John in the anatomy lab on a Friday night. “Hello, John. As you can see, dissection is a hobby of mine. Keeps my anatomy knowledge fresh. And the variations of pathology among human specimens is so useful to my career pursuits.” He turned the heart toward John, showcasing the left atrium, made up of the meeting of the pulmonary veins.

“I thought you were a chemistry student. And just how the hell did you get in here anyway?” John wondered in a whisper, his thoughts moving from the impressive skill on display to the apparent charism at this man’s disposal.

“I know the teaching assistant. A miss Molly Hooper. She finds me charming and therefore _shares_ specimens with me occasionally.” John knew Molly, a cute but shy third-year medical student dedicating her year to an intercalated degree in anatomy. John also knew the weakness Molly had often shown for a handsome face. And this off man is definitely handsome.

Sherlock shifted the heart to his left hand, picking up a probe with his right, and quickly pointed out the salient anatomical landmarks he has dissected and labelled to such great effect. “Aortic arch, aortic valve, with three cusps as per usual, chordae tendineae, papillary muscles, ventricular septum; moving externally, the left anterior descending, left marginal, and circumflex coronary arteries. Note the significant hardening of the LAD from atherosclerotic plaque. A _widowmaker_ in the making, perhaps?”

The war for John’s attention was fought between the off-the-cuff yet detailed medical knowledge and the look of bored amusement with which it was delivered. After a good five seconds of silence, John realized that he had been staring at Sherlock’s expressive eyes. The man returned the stare, a question passing over his face. John opened his mouth, not knowing whether he planned on asking for clarification of Sherlock’s career pursuits or muttering another inane compliment. But before he formed a single word, the buzz of a mobile sounded from Sherlock’s trouser pocket.

“Excuse me,” Sherlock said, blithely passing the heart into John’s hands. He removed his gloves, extricated the phone from his pocket, and answered with a confident “Holmes.”

John, still open-mouthed, listened to half of a conversation involving a body on a doorstep, a slashed throat, and a smashed bust of Margaret Thatcher. “Oooh,” Sherlock murmured with a low laugh, “a seven, at least. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes. _Don’t_ let Anderson move the body.”

He disconnected the call, pocketed the mobile, and turned back to John, his long fingers steepled at his lips as if in prayer.

“Ah, yes. John. I hope that quick review helped. I suppose you’re for the pub with your friends now. I, too, must dash.” Sherlock strode toward the door, grabbing a heavy wool coat from a nearby stool and swirling it around his shoulders and onto his arms. He stopped for a minute, turning back toward John, “Unless you’re interested in accompanying me this evening?”

“Wh--what?” John stuttered, his mind racing desperately to keep up. “But we don’t know a thing about each other,” he managed to say. “What if your flat is filled with trophies from previous murder victims or...or an amphetamine lab? And yet I’m just supposed to faff off into the nighttime streets of London with you?”

Sherlock considered John’s doubtful face, smirked, then took a deep breath and proceeded to tell John _everything_ about himself. “You’re the youngest child of a former army medic, and you decided to give medicine a go after a rugby injury to your left shoulder led to surgery and a less-than-stellar return to play, likewise dashing any hopes you had of going into the military. No doubt your overbearing father had something to do with the decision to buckle down on studies, timed as it was with his constantly-expressed disappointment over your brother Harry dropping out of medical school to pursue a romance with his dear Clara. And Harry’s recent dropping of Clara for the bottle is why you’re in the anatomy lab instead of a pub on a Friday night.” 

His monologue complete, Sherlock took in John’s stunned eyes, clenched jaw, and protruding chin. He nodded, “That’s enough to be going on with, don’t you think? But I do appreciate your caution, and you’re right. Probably best to keep studying tonight.” He disappeared behind the door, then popped his head back around to add, with a wink, “I’ll see you at the next standard patient encounter, _Doctor_.”

***********************

Hours later, as the sky lightened through the unadorned window of his dormitory room on the Mile End campus, Sherlock refused to sleep until his new chemistry apparatus was assembled. As he cleaned glassware and maneuvered tubing and stoppers into place, he mentally harangued those fools, Anderson and Lestrade. _The case is barely a five. Why can’t they see that the key lies not with the identity of the dead man, but with the location of similar Thatcher busts?_

Certainly, the crime of slitting a man’s throat and leaving him on a doorstep seemed, to the dull minds of New Scotland Yard, more menacing than smashing a plaster bust under a streetlight two blocks away, but the _pattern_ held everything. Four busts smashed in the past week, purchased from two different statuaries in the city. Was the connection really so simple as a madman’s homicidal hatred of the former prime minister, as Lestrade proposed?

Sherlock stepped back to look at his lab table. One night of playacting at the medical school, and his funds were repleted, his set-up once again complete. He had no reason to return to the simulation center next week...unless John Watson counted as a reason. Sherlock sighed and ruffled his curly hair. Why was he so focused on such an _ordinary_ man? Certainly he was handsome, but was he even clever?

An even more disturbing question surfaced in Sherlock’s mind: why could he not turn away from this _distraction_? Conditions were perfect for a bit of pharmaceutical enhancement to his deductive process. When would he again have, all at once: a functioning distillation apparatus, a reading week with no scheduled classes, raw materials to produce an array of stimulants, and a case on which to focus? Two weeks ago, such a situation would have seemed like Christmas.

Now, when he thought of using drugs to drop deeply into his mind palace, emerging days from now with the mystery solved, he pictured John’s concerned face at his elevated heart rate and the _scowl_ John had worn when he hinted that Sherlock might have a drug lab. He felt a now-familiar tug on his chordae tendineae, colloquially, the heart strings. 

_Rubbish...sentiment_ , Sherlock scoffed. But instead of lighting a Bunsen burner, he lazily fired a sucker dart at the sloppily painted happy face on his wall and walked to the mini-fridge. On the top shelf set a plastic container of eyeballs, courtesy of Molly. He too, had some studying to do to prepare for the next standard physical exam component.

***********************

Visual aids!

A pretty standard anatomy lab. Note that several students stand around each stand.

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/anatomy%20lab_zpstus5gayq.jpg.html) 

Here's MedStudent!John in scrubs and goggles. No wonder Sherlock is so interested!

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/john%20in%20scrubs_zps8linxfot.jpg.html) [](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/john%20in%20goggles_zps9qamyrom.jpg.html) 

Diagram of cardiac anatomy noting the laandmarks Sherlock mentions:

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/cardiac%20anatomy_zpsac5pphin.jpg.html) 

Dissected human heart. Look how big and strong that muscle is!

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/dissected%20heart_zpsir3gd4ec.jpg.html) 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was told, but I didn't listen! Already, I've added a chapter to the length. Next time, John and Sherlock meet again in the standardized exam room for...you guessed it...the ophthalmic exam. Lots of opportunities for awkward closeness when you're trying to see someone's retina.
> 
> Once again, if you see any errors or have any suggestions, please let me know in the comments.
> 
> I was a little uncertain about the actual picture of the heart. Please please let me know if I need to post an external link instead of the actual picture. Your gross-out meter gets a little messed up when you go through medical training.


	3. Physiologic Mydriasis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another symptom of the mysterious illness from which Sherlock and John are suffering is identified during the standardized eye exam.

_At least this time I’m not running late._ John sighed as he walked into the medical school at Mike Stamford’s side. “But Mike, how can you tell me it makes a bit of difference? Either scope is awkward as arse and you can never see anything because the pupils close up as soon as you shine the light within two centimeters of the eyes!”

Today was another standardized patient experience, this time focusing on the eye exam. After checking for intact extra-ocular movement and visual fields, the intrepid doctors-in-training would be forced to take up that most-dreaded of medical instruments, the ophthalmoscope. Over the past two weeks in their physical diagnosis class, they had been encouraged to experiment with both the traditional and the new-fangled “pan-optic” scopes, which were supposed to give a more complete field of view.

To John and Mike, and most of their classmates, scope choice made no appreciable impact. The difficulty wasn’t seeing all of the retina at once. It was seeing anything more of the back of the eye than a fucking pink and yellow blur.

“Mate, I’m not planning on going into eye surgery,” Mike quipped, and pulled a small bottle from his left breast pocket. John glanced at it and chuckled, shaking his head at the antihistamine eye drops. Their clinical skills instructor had mentioned in passing that certain eye drops led to dilation of the pupil and a much easier exam. “I reckon I’ll at least ask…” Mike said with a shrug, tucking the bottle back into his pocket.

John felt a bit jealous that he hadn’t thought of the trick. But, based on the outcome of his last session, the exam skill itself seemed to matter less than a systematic, professional, and complete approach.

The two men positioned themselves outside their doors, 221-A and B, waiting for the signal to knock. John closed his eyes and spent a minute reviewing the last week and a half of medical school. He had scored highly on the first anatomy exam and, somewhere between staring through a microscope at sectioned gastric mucosa and trying to remember how in the world H2-blockers helped with stomach acid, he had begun to feel like he might belong here. 

He smiled as he remembered Harry coming home her first Christmas, eyes alight with all the new knowledge she was gaining as well as the new relationship she was forming with Clara. There might be hope for a Doctor Watson is his fragmented family yet.

The announcement played to begin the session, and John opened his eyes, turned to Mike, smiled, and glanced down at the patient name on his clipboard. _Sherlock Holmes._ He honestly didn’t know whether that was a boon or a bust.

John knocked briefly and waited for Sherlock’s acknowledgement, then opened the door and stepped into the exam room. As he cleaned his hands with the alcohol foam, he glanced at his patient. This time around, Sherlock wore a suit similar to the one he had worn that odd night in the anatomy lab. John most definitely did not think about how the finely-cut suit hugged Sherlock’s shoulders or how the purple shirt contrasted with his unblemished skin.

John listened as Sherlock recited the scripted chief complaint of headaches, then confirmed that Sherlock could follow his finger in all directions without the small flickering motions of the eyes termed nystagmus. Sherlock’s pupils responded appropriately to light shined into the eyes on each side. John then did his best to assess that Sherlock could see his finger wiggling at the edges of his vision with a hand over his left and then right eye.

 _Well, there’s nothing else for it. Time to try this blasted thing again._ Taking in and letting out a deep breath, John removed the ophthalmoscope from the wall and selected the smallest, dimmest light source to begin. He cleared his throat, turning slightly to direct the small circle of light behind him onto the wall at Sherlock’s eye level and slightly to the left.

“Mr. Holmes, if you could please focus your eyes about…there. I’m going to...dim the lights...to allow me to see the back of your eye.” John flipped the switch for the overhead light and plunged the room into near-darkness.

 

“ _Mr.. Holmes?_ John, I really thought we had moved beyond formalities.” Sherlock smirked, his silver-grey eyes flashing with flirtation as John turned to face him. John paused with the scope in his left hand, halfway to his own eye as his breath simply… _stopped_ at the sight of this man in the dim illumination from the computer screen, cheekbones throwing dramatic shadows across a _gorgeous_ face.

John nearly _giggled_ with nerves as he approached Sherlock’s left side, raising his right hand to hover just above one violently-defined cheekbone. He leaned in closer and murmured, “I’m just going to place my thumb above your eye…” He positioned his thumb just above Sherlock’s upper lid and sucked in a shallow breath at the feeling of thin, smooth skin beneath the pad of his finger. Through the scope held to his left eye, he could have sworn he saw the pale, indefinable, _beautiful_ iris shrink.

John moved his face even closer to Sherlock’s, holding his breath and telling himself that this was _a great opportunity to gain more medical knowledge._ With such large pupils, his odd patient might make this exam easier. He continued to hold his breath as he gazed, quite literally, deep into Sherlock’s eyes.

John let out his breath in small, excited puffs as the exam progressed. It really was going _incredibly_ smoothly! Sherlock’s left pupil remained large even when exposed to the light of the scope, his iris a tiny gibbous surrounding the void. John was able to see more than he had in any of his practice sessions—the delicate pink retina criss-crossed with dark red blood vessels, the pale yellow optic disc in the center. “Wow, Sherlock. This is amazing. I can see everything!”

 

***********************

Sherlock tried to keep still as John expressed his pleasure as the exam progressed, but he was forced to fight harder every second not to drop his eyes to John’s mouth, not to tilt his chin and close the scant distance between their lips. He smiled minutely, knowing exactly why John was having such success. 

He had considered using eye drops to widen his pupils, giving John an easier time, but he hadn’t made time to purchase any. He had also considered that smaller pupils might lead to a more difficult exam, which would translate into more…face-to-face time. Once again, Sherlock had missed a detail. _It’s always something_ he thought. _Attraction leads to dilated pupils_. But Sherlock couldn’t be too upset. John seemed so excited at clearly seeing his retina that he was lingering regardless. _Bless the biochemistry of attraction._

Sherlock’s silent prayer to science floated away, his smile grew, and he breathed a bit more easily, determined to allow his doctor-in-training all the time he needed to complete a thorough examination.

 

***********************

 

 _Nothing wrong there_ , John thought, adjusting the magnification on his scope. He backed up from his patient’s face wearing his own wide, bright smile, then stepped quickly around to Sherlock’s right side. The actions happened automatically…the right thumb placed above the eyelid, ophthalmoscope raised to his left eye to repeat the exam on the patient’s right. And, before he knew it, John Watson found himself directly face-to-face, nose-to-nose…nearly _lip-to-lip_ with Sherlock Holmes.

He exhaled sharply and felt an answering breath ghost over his lips. A quick glance showed that Sherlock’s pupils had widened even further. _Shit shit…shit._ John stumbled back quickly, lowering the scope to his waist and blinking rapidly. He was nearly _panting_ , his cheeks flushing pink with…embarrassment.

Of course it was _embarrassment._ The proctors had just seen him botch the maneuver, committing the cardinal sin of forgetting to adjust the scope to the opposite side. _Certainly_ it was nothing else. John was worried about his grade and that was why his heart was pounding and he was finding it hard to breathe.

But how did embarrassment and worry explain his inability to look away from the pale eyes in front of him, except to make a short excursion to glance at the sinfully shaped lips? How did mortification explain why John shivered when Sherlock’s tongue darted out to wet those lips?

The two men stared at each other for what seemed like minutes, blinking slowly, each lost in hisown thoughts and desires. The warning for two minutes remaining in the encounter sounded, rousing them from their reveries.

“What’s the next session covering?” Sherlock asked quietly.

 

“The skin exam.” John whispered back, shivering again at the thought of surveying what seemed like _acres_ of Sherlock’s pale body. He cleared his throat, then said, a bit more loudly, “But…I mean….don’t take this the wrong way. But…I don’t want anyone else to… I don’t want to _share_ you.” John blushed even more deeply and finally broke eye contact, dropping his eyes to the floor. _Just where the fuck did that come from?_

“Then perhaps we could arrange…a _private_ study session?” Sherlock bent his neck to meet John’s eyes, pleading with a glance.

John’s eyes head snapped back up and his eyes fixed back on Sherlock. He had to clear his throat again to force his response out. “So, you’d be…retired? But you’d still…help me?”

Sherlock nodded, the right edge of his mouth quirking up slightly as he dropped his eyes back to John’s mouth. He leaned forward slightly, almost involuntarily.

“Okay,” John managed, his voice at least an octave deeper than it had been when he entered the exam room. “But let me take you out to dinner? To… _repay_ you.”

“That would be…good,” Sherlock murmured in a low whisper.

“Tomorrow night?”

“I know a place. Let me see your phone.”

“Oh, God, yes.” John fumbled his mobile from his pocket, slapped it in Sherlock’s hand, and watched as he entered his number. He glanced at the computer screen, the smile falling off his face as he did a double-take. Thirty seconds left.

“Oh, _bollocks_!” John quickly retrieved his phone, dashed to the door, and slammed the light back on. His hand was on the handle when he heard Sherlock’s giggle.

“Doctor Watson, I don’t believe _that_ will be on the dermatological exam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, guys! I'm coming to you from 40,000 feet, one gin and tonic into my Vegas vacation. I've been so excited about this chapter that I couldn't wait to share! Oh God, I hope you enjoy reading as much as I did writing!
> 
> It's a bit hard to explain, so I'll let the pictures do it for me (mostly), but you are really *all up in* your patient's face when you are looking at their retinas. It's important to use your left eye to examine *their* left eye and your right for their right, unless you want to end up basically making out.
> 
> Visual aids!
> 
> Two types of ophthalmoscope, the traditional and the pan-optic:  
> [](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/two%20scopes_zpsazda0nxl.jpg.html)
> 
> Here's a doctor all up in a patient's grill:  
> [](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/doctor-ophthalmoscope-examining-patient-s-eye-hospital-37116243_zpswixjkhcx.jpg.html)
> 
> And here's an illustration showing how easily nose- and lip-bumping can occur when you're not paying attention; John was, after all, a little over-eager:  
> [](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/nose%20to%20nose_zpssozlfb1q.jpg.html)
> 
> Victorian "Watson and Holmes" practicing the eye exam:  
> [](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/ophtho_zpsp2botzpu.jpg.html)
> 
> And finally, here's what your doctor (or more probably, eye doctor) is looking at:  
> [](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/retina_zpsjolfbpym.jpg.html)
> 
> For what it's worth, I'm still rubbish at seeing the retina, for much the same reason as John and Mike relate in the beginning of this chapter.


	4. Special Senses

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John have their first dinner at Angelo's. As you can guess, it goes a little differently for our Unilock pairing.

Most days for Sherlock Holmes before John Watson had involved heavy avoidance: avoiding his classmates’ glares or, perhaps worse, their requests for help; avoiding his professors’ tentative glances to ensure they hadn’t misspoken during lecture; avoiding flirtatious overtones from the likes of James Moriarty and Irene Adler; and, most of all, avoiding any interaction with his brother Mycroft. Drugs and deep thinking, best when combined, had been his standard method.

However, in the twenty-five hours between the clinical intimacy of that _wonderful_ eye exam and the scheduled dinner and private study session…their _date_ , Sherlock labeled, smiling sotly, Sherlock’s last impulse was avoidance. He wanted to submerge himself in thoughts of John, reliving every moment in the darkened exam room in beautiful Technicolor. He wanted to positively _bathe_ in the details of cerulean irises, sandy hair, and shell-pink lips. John Watson was his own personal paradise.

Alas, the case Lestrade and Anderson had done their best to botch had, by some perverse twist of luck, come to a boiling point at the same time as his…relationship with John. New Scotland Yard’s best had finally followed Sherlock’s advice and traced the last two busts of Margaret Thatcher produced by a sculpture works in Church Street. And one of the busts was, rather fortuitously, on display at the restaurant to which he had invited John. Sherlock sighed, looking away from the skin cells he was examining under his microscope’s medium power. Since he would be forced to participate in a stake-out of sorts, he supposed it was a happy accident that he wouldn’t have to break his most-anticipated date.

 

***********************

 

John arrived at Angelo’s right at 8pm, the time Sherlock had designated via text. He peeked in the front window of the small restaurant and felt a cold wave of worry. He couldn’t spot that head of dark, curly hair, saw no finely constructed torso clad in a finely constructed suit. Had he been stood up? Of _course_ a super-intelligent, gorgeous man didn’t want to have dinner with plain, simple John Watson… _especially_ after he had gone full caveman, demanding that Sherlock quit his job as a standardized patient to suit John’s possessive character.

But just as his thoughts were working themselves into a whirlpool of worry, John heard a deep, sensuous voice speak from the open door of a black London cab. “Just here, thank you.”

“Hello, John.” Sherlock emerged from the kerb side of the car in a swirl of grey wool and drama, grabbing John’s hand and pulling him through the door to the restaurant, which was being held by a large, bearded man. “Angelo, I believe we have a table reserved…and a bottle of white?”

The man smiled warmly at Sherlock, not the least put off by his abrupt behavior or lack of eye contact. He clasped his hands against his chest as his friendly, curious eyes did a quick sweep over John’s person, then he grabbed two menus and motioned for the pair to follow. He led them to a tiny, round table next to an unlit fireplace.

John walked around to sit facing the door, but Sherlock huffed and grasped his date’s shoulders to direct him to the opposite chair. The tall man sat in the chair with a view of the entrance, not bothering to remove his coat.

 _Well, why should this thing start to be normal now?_ John left his jacket on as well, settled in the seat, and unfolded his menu, while Sherlock sat, chin on fist, eyes fixed just over John’s right shoulder. John glanced behind himself, puzzled as to what had captured Sherlock’s attention. 

Angelo returned with a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a box of matches. He poured generously for each of them and efficiently lit the candle in the center of the table.

“There,” he said, motioning to the flame, “more romantic. Now, what can I get you? Anything on the menu, on the house, for Sherlock Holmes,” Angelo angled his smiling face first at Sherlock, then turned to John, “and his date.”

“Do you want to eat, John?”

“I rather thought that was the point of dinner. To eat.” John raised his eyes from the menu to Angelo, smiling to let him know they’d need some time to come to a decision. Angelo smiled back, a shared acknowledgement of the eccentric man John had chosen to accompany this evening.

“I never eat on a case.”

“A case?”

“Yes, a case. The very same that ended our meeting two Fridays ago. A case that happens to involve that rather distasteful bust of Margaret Thatcher so prominently displayed on the mantle behind you. There’s a criminal bent on finding and destroying those busts, and he’s passionate enough about his task that the chore of committing murder didn’t stop him.” Sherlock spilled the words quickly, as if he were repeating universally-known facts. As he directed his eyes back from the bust to John’s face, he frowned slightly. “You’ve got questions.”

“Well..yes.” John wondered where to start. “Who exactly are you? I thought you were a uni student.”

Sherlock flapped his right hand dismissively. “Dull. I admit that I am currently studying chemistry. _But_ for the past several months, I’ve been working as a consulting detective. _The_ consulting detective, I should say, as I invented the job. I help the police when they’re out of their depth, which is always.”

“But the police don’t consult amateurs.”

“Didn’t you wonder how I knew about your father, your rugby injury…your alcoholic sibling, the med school dropout?”

John shrugged, “I thought you asked around, looked me up. Or you guessed.”

“I didn’t guess. I _saw_. The first clue was your stethoscope at the standard cardiac exam. Engraved to Dr. Harry Watson, no scuffs on the metal, and the latest model Littman has available, so a recent purchase for your brother. Why would he pass it along if he were still using it? That, combined with Harry’s dissection guide in the dissection lab, notated only to the end of first semester anatomy, progressively decorated with the name ‘Clara’…well, it clearly speaks of an infatuation leading to a cessation of his medical studies.

“Regarding your injury: you are left handed, but favor that side, such as when you knocked on the door or manipulated the exam table with your right hand. You’re well-muscled, especially in the quadriceps. Such musculature combined with a shoulder injury likely resulted from rugby. And you have the severely-groomed countenance of one who has either wanted to go into the military for his entire life, or been threatened with it. In your case, I’d wager both, a result of growing up with a military medic for a father.”

John laid down his menu and closed his gaping mouth. After a second, he asked, “And Harry’s drinking?”

“Ah, yes, that _was_ a guess.” Sherlock gifted John with a small, pleased smile. “A good one, though.

“That night in the anatomy lab, you didn’t _need_ to be studying. You knew the material; you were moving your lips along with my words as I identified the coronary anatomy. And leaving off studying was not a reason you gave for not joining me for my investigation. You were in the anatomy lab on a Friday night because you wanted an excuse to beg off from the usual pub scene. You worry that the academic stress of medical school combined with social drinking will lead to addiction, which isn’t such a foolish concern, given your family’s history of alcoholism.”

“That was amazing. You’re… _brilliant_.”

John leaned forward, pulling Sherlock down by the lapels of his ridiculous coat. His eyes met Sherlock’s, asking permission, which was granted with a slow blink and quick dilation of those miraculous pupils.

John tilted his head and placed a lingering yet chaste kiss on his date’s lips.

The kiss ended, and several of each man’s exhales caressed the other’s lips before Sherlock opened his eyes, met John’s gaze, and breathed, “That’s not what people usually say.”

John rubbed his lips twice more over Sherlock’s, with no real pressure, only friction and a promise of more. “Is that right? What do they usually say?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock sighed.

He kissed John gently again, whispering, “You think you’re not good enough, not smart enough or strong enough. But you are, John. You’re….” He ran his nose up John’s cheek and delivered the next word directly into John’s right ear. ”… _perfect_.”

John’s eyes closed automatically and he pressed his face against Sherlock’s smooth cheek. He wanted to _drown_ in this moment, lungs full of Sherlock’s breath, mind full of plans for more.

But Sherlock suddenly jerked his face away, pushed his chair back, and jumped to his feet. His head turned from the now-empty mantle to the small bell on the restaurant’s door, still gently swinging, and pulled John up and toward the exit. “And you were right…the police don’t consult amateurs.”

 

***********************

 

Visual aids! 

 

Here's the stethoscope John has, although his engraving would, of course, say "Dr. Harry Watson":  
[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/engraved%20stethoscope_zpsmhmvy5yw.jpg.html)

And here is the dissector that John is using second-hand from Harry. That's right, there's totally a book that takes you through how to cut up a human body, step by step. I'm sort of giggling thinking of Sherlock paging through the one in the anatomy lab and noticing all the little "Clara"s with hearts around them and assuming John's brother did that. :)  
[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/grants_dissector_zpsbjzwznse.jpg.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a short one, I know. I just didn't want to pile a bunch of deductions in with case exposition, and the break felt natural, so...there it is. Up next is a bit of casework followed by that private study session ;)
> 
> The special senses are "the senses that have specialized organs devoted to them: vision (the eye) hearing and balance (the ear, which includes the auditory system and vestibular system) smell (the nose) taste (the tongue)" (quote from Wikipedia). Sherlock's senses are pretty darn special by any definition.
> 
> I didn't uncover any sexy dermatology facts at my conference, which I guess I should have expected, since it focused on Skin Disease. There was one great quote about the "naked eye" exam. Which put me in mind of a *naked* eye exam. Perhaps in time.
> 
> Oh, and I used Ariane Devere's transcript of A Study in Pink (available over on LJ) quite a bit to check my phrasing. Thanks for all your hard work, Ariane!


	5. One Feature of Interest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today, we catch up with our intrepid duo in the midst of a chase, then follow them back to John's apartment for the...aftermath.
> 
> Note the rating change to Mature. And expect another jump to Explicit in the next chapter.

Sherlock felt right… _complete_ for perhaps the first time in his life. The moist heat of John’s mouth still warming his lips, the feel of John’s smaller hand clasped behind him, the thrill of a case denouement… _this was very good_. He pushed the door open and rushed into the street, nodding briskly to Angelo, and managed to glimpse a young man in black pants and a white button-down-- _the busboy--_ climbing into the very cab Sherlock had taken to the restaurant. He sprinted after the cab but couldn’t catch up as it took off down the street, turning right at full speed around the next corner.

“Come, John. I know a shortcut.”

“Shortcut? To where?” John dropped Sherlock’s hand and rubbed his left shoulder, which, now that Sherlock considered, he might have tugged on a little too strongly when he pulled his date out of the restaurant.

Sherlock turned with a smile, relishing the moment, and intoned, “Really, Dr. Watson, it’s _elementary_.”

And off he ran, cutting right into the nearest building, bounding up wooden stairs and fairly jumping out of an open window onto a fire escape. He heard John swear colorfully, but nonetheless felt him land at his side a second later. They climbed a metal ladder to the roof, and proceeded to jump across the gaps separating the next several rooftops.

John’s scuffed sneakers came skidding to a halt next to Sherlock’s polished Oxfords at the edge of an edifice overlooking one of London’s quiet side streets. The same cab was idling, its back door swinging open.

“Here!” Sherlock traversed the roof to the nearest alley and jumped down to another escape landing, then into a skip, giving no care for its contents or the possible ruin of his clothes. John followed in a more measured way, making use of three ladders in his course to the ground. He helped haul Sherlock from the trash container, and they flattened themselves against the brick wall adjacent and waited, working hard to control their breathing.

The suspect finished paying the cabbie and turned toward the alley, his head tipping up toward a floodlight that was casting the shadow in which the men were hidden. Sherlock gasped quietly as he spotted the bust of Thatcher cradled protectively in the busboy’s arms. The thief walked purposefully to the center of the beam of light and placed the bust on the ground, raising his foot to smash the plaster.

Sherlock, sensing his moment, stepped forward and cleared his throat. The startled boy turned with a raised fist and connected it directly to Sherlock’s mouth. The detective’s head snapped back, then forward, then back against the trash container as the busboy dragged him by the coat collar and slammed his shoulders against the metal to position him for another blow.

“Oi!” John grunted, lunging from the darkness and pulling the culprit away from Sherlock. He tackled him to the ground, holding his wrists tightly, and straddled his lower back. John turned to check on Sherlock, “Are you alright?”

Sherlock used the first finger of his right hand to delicately swipe a drop of blood from the corner of his mouth, then pushed his shoulders off the painted metal and smiled.

“Never better,” he quipped. He bent to pick up the bust and tucked it under his coat with a flourish. “And you?”

John giggled, shaking his head and looking down at the captive beneath him. “I’m fine, ta. But what do I do with this one? I’d like to bruise him up a bit, but I’m guessing you have other plans.”

Sherlock sighed as red and blue lights from the street flashed across his face. “Unfortunately.”

“Sherlock _Bloody_ Holmes. Can’t you do anything without a three-act production?” Lestrade joked as he stepped from behind the wheel of the panda car and sized up the situation. He gestured to John. “And who the hell is this?”

“He’s with me.” Sherlock intoned, smiling at John. He passed the Thatcher bust to Lestrade then placed his hand on John’s head. John started to giggle again, and Sherlock fell into the laughing fit with him as the DI left the statue in the police car and returned with handcuffs.

“I’m guessing you two need a ride home,” Lestrade said a minute later, when the criminal was properly detained within a back-up unit.

The two men exchanged a glance, nodded, then ducked into the back of Lestrade’s patrol car. Sherlock grasped John’s hand again as the two collapsed against the seat. They breathed in tandem, measuring their exhales to recover from the chase and laughing fit, until John was suddenly overcome with a resurgence of giggles.

“What?” Sherlock enquired.

“That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever done.” John turned a megawatt grin on Sherlock, eyes shining with glee.

Sherlock smirked and leaned in to place a kiss on John’s lips. He stopped with only an inch between them to say, “So far,” before closing the distance. John gasped as Sherlock ran his tongue questioningly over the seam of his mouth.

Just then, Lestade stopped his car at John’s address, pointedly clearing his throat. The men jumped apart and stepped out of the vehicle to stand on the stoop of the Montague street apartment, smiling dopily at each other before leaning in again, drawn as if by magnets.

“We never did get to eat.” John angled a kiss just below Sherlock’s right ear, “and your… _case_ is over.” He placed another kiss over Sherlock’s left carotid pulse then pulled away to meet his eyes. “Dinner?”

“I’m not hungry.”

John smiled wolfishly and changed tactics, “Well, the flat’s dark, so Mike’s still at the pub. How about my study session?”

Sherlock returned John’s open-mouth kiss to the neck, then straightened, catching John’s eyes and watching azure irises shrink as he licked his lips and nodded.

 

***********************

 

John unlocked the door to his second-floor flat and turned a shy smile to Sherlock. “It’s not much, and it’s probably a mess,” he apologized in advance, opening the door into a cluttered sitting room with ornate, contrasting wallpaper on three of the four walls. He picked up a teacup and medical textbook from his desk and motioned for his date to sit in a green leather chair in front of the fireplace. Sherlock didn’t sit, but instead stepped closer, looming over John.

John truncated the kiss after a few seconds. “Just let me…” he motioned to the kitchen with full hands “clean up a bit. Make yourself comfortable. There’s a blanket on the couch if you’re cold. When I get back, I can start a fire.”

He left Sherlock in the sitting area, hustling to the kitchen sink to deposit the dirty mug, then to his room to stow his histology textbook and grab his dermoscope. _Just in case he really intends on me learning the blooming skin exam._ He glanced into the mirror hanging above his dresser, took in his blushing cheeks and mussed hair, and grinned as he tried to pat the short blond strands into some semblance of order.

John took in the scene as he walked back out of his doorway and smiled at Sherlock, who had thrown his coat over the green chair and was standing, wrapped in the fleece blanket, perusing the photographs over the fireplace.

“That’s me, my dad, and Harry,” John stated, and Sherlock looked confused. “Ah, yeah, Harry’s my sister.”

“Sister,” Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. “It’s always something.”

John dropped his hands lightly on Sherlock’s shoulders and directed him back to sit on the ottoman between the two chairs, dropping a light kiss on his forehead. “You sit and think about what clues you could have possibly missed, and I’ll get a blaze going.”

He was well-practiced at striking a fire, and Mike had thoughtfully set up a wood pile. Within four minutes, he had a blaze going that was putting off enough heat to warm the room. He turned back to Sherlock and nearly swallowed his tongue.

The detective was sitting with the blanket wrapped loosely around his hips, shirtless, with mussed curls and dark eyes, looking positively debauched. Miles of pale skin glowed in the firelight. John’s eyes roamed over the lines of muscle and bone decorated with scattered moles. Sternocleidomastoid, clavicle, pectoral, sternum, umbilicus, rectis abdominis…happy trail. John felt the abrupt switch from clinical to sexual interest in his mind and, more notably, in his cock. He took a deep breath, tearing his attention from Sherlock’s body to focus on his eyes with a questioning glance.

“Skin exam, John. Remember?” Sherlock shifted his shoulders and arse as he settled more deeply on the ottoman, treating John to a positively filthy smile.

John cleared his throat and croaked, “I’m a bit out of my depth here. I can’t remember the first thing about the skin.”

“It’s not as if _I_ should be telling _you_ , but there are four basic steps.” Sherlock clutched the edges of the blanket over his right hip and began a lecture in earnest, gesticulating with one free hand. “First: a brief inspection of the entire visible body, then a closer visualization of each body part, with corresponding description of any findings. Then…palpation.”

“Ah,” John said, stepping closer, pleased to note that Sherlock’s head tilted up toward his as his breathing quickened. “I see, overall, a _fit_ young man with a few scattered nevi. Some bruising on the shoulders, possibly from a criminal chase ending in altercation, a small cut in the right angle of a positively _lush_ set of lips, dark curly hair that looks like it has a bit of product in it earlier in the evening but has been _disheveled_ by some no doubt nefarious activity. Tell, me Sherlock…shall I continue with the _closer_ inspection?”

Sherlock nodded, and John sat in the green leather chair, scooting it closer so they sat face to face. The doctor raised his left hand, ghosting it along Sherlock’s cheekbone.

“No suspicious lesions here…” he moved down Sherlock’s neck and traced his collarbone, fingers tripping over the ribs on his right side “or here.”

Sherlock inhaled sharply and loosened his grip on the blanket, leaning in to kiss John lightly. John grasped the other man’s waist with his left hand and moved his right to flatten his palm against the point of maximal impulse again.

John moaned at the strong, racing pulsations he felt under Sherlock’s thin skin. He broke the kiss, breathing heavily. “There’s that bounding movement of the heart again. And do I detect a bit of flushing in the face and chest?” He smiled mischievously and moved to kneel between Sherlock’s legs. He kissed him again, open-mouthed and desperate, as his hands slid lower yet. The pressure of his knees caused the blanket to inch down incrementally, displaying protruding iliac crests and the slightest hint of dark pubic hair.

John glanced down between them and his breathing ceased again. He ran his first two fingers along the fine line of dark hair leading down from Sherlock’s belly button and murmured, “Are you wearing any pants?” before looking up to meet Sherlock’s eyes again.

“No.”

 

***********************

 

Visual aids!

 

Here's a bust of Thatcher. This one is not plaster, but you get the idea. Why do people buy such things?

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/wedgwood%20thatcher%20bust_zpshsryvkqp.jpg.html)

As far as medical dermatology images go, I'm gonna assume you don't want a lecture about the ABCDE's of suspicious lesions, so I leave you with goofy old dermoscopy pictures:

[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/1936-marinello-dermascope_zps1bwqvf4i.jpg.html)   
[](http://s1255.photobucket.com/user/smirkdoctor84/media/1939-polaroid-dermascope_zpslqopncyn.jpg.html)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Y'all, I promise the smut is coming. I drafted this section on Monday and planned to add some more...color later on. But life got away from me, and I decided any update was better than none. And really, this one is pretty damn sexy, if my own pulse and irises are any indication. I bumped the chapter count up again. Who the hell knows, anyway?


	6. Point, Shoot, and Score

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock gain first-hand experience with what is perhaps the dirtiest medical mnemonic in our latest, smut-filled installment.
> 
> Trigger warnings for mentions of drug use and suicidality.

Sherlock had, of course, heard the phrase “don’t tease the beast” before, but had never understood the recommended caution. He undertook every action with intention and full awareness of the most likely outcome. After all, induction ran complementary to deduction. And he had entered into the seduction of John Watson with the objective of inciting the young doctor to amorous action.

Based on the growl that issued from John’s chest when he realized that all that separated Sherlock’s naked body from his gaze was a thin fleece blanket held by trembling hands, Sherlock _had_ awakened his beast.

John passed his left palm slowly over Sherlock’s cloth-covered erection and Sherlock gulped, then exhaled shakily as John mouthed soft, loose kisses over his neck and upper chest. His mind stuttered over medical Latin, drawing connections between the _sacral_ area and the sacred…the divine…heaven...

 _Unfettered pleasure_.

John’s fingers came to rest on Sherlock’s right hand, which was barely holding onto two corners of the blanket, then removed his face from Sherlock’s chest, pulling a groan with him. Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed into John’s, giving him permission, signing over possession, begging for grace. He released his fingers and John grasped a single layer of fleece, drawing it back as if removing a hermetic seal, never dropping his eyes.

This wonderful man kissed Sherlock with a heady mixture of lips, tongue, and gently nipping teeth as he placed his hand on one bare knee and ran trailing fingers through the light smattering of hair that grew thicker as it approached the juncture of Sherlock’s thighs. Sherlock breathed John into his airways in a great gasp as he felt the other man’s hand come to rest on his shaft.

“Oh, God,” John murmured on an exhale.

“Not quite,” Sherlock smiled, capturing John’s lips, wrapping one hand behind his neck and using the other to push down against the ottoman and elevate his pelvis against the delicious pressure of John’s grinding palm.

John broke the kiss, huffing a laugh on an exhale and quirking half a smile before descending once again to Sherlock’s neck. He moved with purpose over the clavicle, sternal notch, sternum, and xyphoid process, leaving small love bites before detouring for a brief tonguing of one nipple. Sherlock was dimly aware that he was mindlessly reciting all of these anatomical landmarks as John’s left hand came up, allowing his finger and thumb to capture the opposite nipple.

Another breathy chuckle from John caused the hairs below Sherlock’s umbilicus to stir as John once again found his path. Sherlock held his breath until his lungs burned, afraid that the slightest movement of his chest or abdomen would distract John from his quest. Finally, John arrived at his goal, burying his nose in the dark hair of Sherlock’s groin and inhaling deeply. Sherlock gasped again, oxygen burning his lungs as much as its deprivation.

And, quite possibly for the very first time, his mind went utterly, _blessedly_ quiet.

 

***********************

 

It’s not like John had never seen a penis. You didn’t play travel-league rugby for years without inadvertently (or not so inadvertently, in a few cases) glimpsing your teammates in the showers. He had certainly seen his share of naked men in anatomy texts and illustrations, and the good lord knew that John had lots of hands-on experience with his own dick. Hell, he had wanked, coming with gusto, just prior to leaving his flat this evening in an attempt to calm the curling, deep-seated pressure that had taken up residence in his lower abdomen since the last standardized exam with Sherlock.

John had observed, but never stated aloud… _God, no…_ that each man’s penis tended to match the body to which it belonged. His own was slightly shorter than average, but solid in girth, rising from a thatch of soft blond hair. And there had been an uncommonly tall bloke on his rugby team whose cock was unbelievably _long_ …

True to form, Sherlock’s was somehow _pretty_ , if that term could even be applied to a phallus. Closer inspection was, indeed, indicated. And with that, John abandoned all clinical detachment and nuzzled his face against the source of the intimate olfactory stimuli of Sherlock’s body. _Yes,_ he though hazily, _there is no other way to describe it._

Even erect and straining, Sherlock’s cock was several shades paler than John’s. It ascended proudly from thick, curly black hair, and, while thin, was _abso-fucking-lutely_ perfectly formed, the foreskin retracted to showcase a darker, shiny head with a pearlescent bead of arousal at the apex. John turned his face and ran the tip of his nose along the soft skin, feeling the light pulsing of the dorsal vein and inhaling Sherlock’s musk. He allowed his nose to bump over the frenulum and rested the ridge lightly between his closed lips, glancing up at Sherlock, who appeared to be entirely lost to sensation, his eyes hooded and unfocused.

John kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock as he opened his lips and pushed his tongue out, slowly circling the corona before darting to lap pre-ejaculate from the slit. Sherlock clenched his eyes shut and let his hand fall from John’s neck to brace behind him on the ottoman. As John opened his mouth further, Sherlock thrust his cock slowly into the moist heat.

The two men’s sighs combined as Sherlock took his weight on his palms and began to move his hips in waves, running the tip of his penis along John’s soft palate, but not penetrating too deeply. _Fuck this_ , John thought, without irony, and pushed his lips to the base of Sherlock’s cock, bottoming the crown out in his throat and loving the feel of Sherlock so deep inside himself. He moaned appreciatively; he could keep this up all day.

But Sherlock’s thrusts suddenly became less rhythmic, almost frantic. John prepared himself to work this beautiful man through orgasm, and nearly whined when Sherlock pulled him, none-too-gently, fist in hair, away from his straining erection.

“John,” Sherlock panted, wrenching his eyes open and catching John in a supplicating gaze. “Not…not like this. Please, take me to bed. Let me…let me see you…come with me.”

Looking in those eyes, John found he could refuse nothing, and pulled the other man to standing before wrapping him tightly in his arms.

 

***********************

 

Sherlock smiled into John’s injured shoulder, luxuriating in the tight pressure of athletic arms surrounding his torso. He calmed his breathing, grateful for the reprieve from impending orgasm. As perfect as John’s mouth had felt moving over him so intimately, Sherlock could not allow for one-sided satisfaction. He _needed_ to see John stripped bare, on display as his body had been since the beginning of their acquaintance. He _needed_ to examine his doctor’s body, analyze each freckle and muscular twitch, and verify that he was the cause of each incidence of piloerection. He wanted to _take John apart_.

Sufficiently recovered, Sherlock wiggled his arms out from John’s embrace, reaching around denim-clad hips to grip handfuls of firm rugby-player’s arse. John grunted as his covered erection was pulled into contact with Sherlock’s bare flesh, and the detective began a slow grind against his partner.

“Sherlock…God,” John breathed, a prayer of ecstasy. His hands caught the other man’s waist and continued grinding out a rhythm as Sherlock moved to lift the bottom of John’s jumper. Soon, the wooly garment was removed, discarded onto the sitting room floor, and long, thin fingers were making quick work of the button-down beneath.

When John’s second layer was shed, Sherlock moved his hand to the closure of his jeans. The grommet slipped free easily, and Sherlock lowered the zipper and spared no time insinuating his hand into the resulting opening. The heel of his palm rested on the glans, his fingers reaching past the base to caress John’s scrotum through his cotton pants.

John issued a small, strangled noise and used his forehead to turn Sherlock’s face back to his. He kissed him fiercely, possessively, and ground out, “Bedroom… _now_.”

Less than a minute later, they were sealed in the quiet darkness of John’s room. After depositing his newly undressed specimen supine on the bed, Sherlock switched on the lamp on the bedside table. John made to cover himself, but Sherlock restrained his hand, shaking his head minutely. “No, John. _Let me examine you_ _now_.”

John nodded and Sherlock saw nothing but naked trust in the smaller man’s eyes as he climbed up the bed to bracket him with his long body. He spent several minutes discovering John’s flesh with lips, nose, and fingertips, moving from his jaw to his neck, over his chest and abdomen, finally settling into his groin with a satisfied sigh. He licked a path up his shaft then lubricated it with a quick bob of his mouth before drawing off, smiling at the other man’s dismayed sound as he positioned his legs to straddle John’s upper thighs. He wrapped his long fingers around both of their cocks and began to thrust gently as he drew his grip down, then up.

“Oh, fu…. _fuck_. That’s…that’s… _good_.” John dragged his left hand down his face then threw that arm out to open a drawer on his bedside table. Sherlock watched with half-closed eyes as he uncapped a container of lubricant and doused his hand. “But this might make it better.”

John batted Sherlock’s fist aside to slick them both before grasping Sherlock’s cock with his left hand and using his right to pull him down so they were stacked horizontally, their open lips instinctually meeting. Sherlock worked his hand back between them and reclaimed his possession of John, and the pair began to move their hips in sensual tandem as their lips and tongues demonstrated their basest desires.

A bare minute later, Sherlock gasped as he once again felt his pleasure blooming. Deep, heavy warmth began at his balls as they pulled toward his body, toward John’s pistoning hand. The pressure spread further up his spine, causing his abdominal muscles to clench. His breath caught and his hips stuttered and he overflowed with bliss, his semen spilled onto John’s still-moving fingers, and a small flow of happy tears spilled over his eyelashes.

“John,” was all he managed before John smashed their lips together and he felt the warmth of the other man’s completion join his. They rode the wave together until Sherlock collapsed onto John’s chest and rolled slowly aside, keeping his nose and lips buried in the crook of John’s neck.

 

***********************

 

John trailed his hand lazily through the pooled results of their intimacy, creating shiny trails across Sherlock’s flat abdomen.

“Point, shoot, and score…” he muttered, laughing quietly when Sherlock turned his head, questioning him with a glance.

“It’s a medical mnemonic, for the innervation of the penis. _Parasympathetic_ for erection, _sympathetic_ for semen emission, _somatomotor_ for ejaculation.”

“I must not have read far enough ahead,” Sherlock said, nodding seriously as John dissolved in giggles. He continued to run his fingertips over all of the milky skin on display as he kissed his bedmate, delirious with happiness.

Fingers and laughter stopped at once when John came to the crook of Sherlock’s left elbow, feeling corded scars along the major veins. A glance at Sherlock’s wrist showed even worse: an angry, longitudinal wound along the radial artery. He turned to inquire and found Sherlock’s face bloodless, his lips held in a tight line.

“Sherlock. What…what are these?”

“You’re a medical man, John. I should think you could posit a hypothesis.”

“No.” John shook his head vehemently, then grasped his chin in his palm, forcing Sherlock to meet his gaze. “No. We’re not fucking doing this. I did not just come in your arms to be immediately shut out. _What_ _are_ _these_?”

He saw Sherlock considering his options, worrying his lush bottom lip between his teeth as his eyes darted from John’s face to his scarred skin. Seeming to come to a decision, Sherlock shifted down the bed and onto his side, facing John with spare inches between their noses. He sighed and began to speak.

“Many events in my past were not easy for me, John. As I hinted earlier, other people have, traditionally, been far more likely to tell me off than appreciate my…gifts. So I learned to avoid, to not engage. To not…need affection.”

John frowned, and Sherlock, sensing he intended to interrupt, shook his head and pushed on. “That suited my family just as well. Father and Mummy aren’t demonstrative by nature. And _Mycroft_ …well…he tends to show affection through control.”

This time, Sherlock allowed a short pause for John to press their lips together and tangle his hand in dark curls, stroking his nape soothingly.

“Before Victor, I hadn’t truly been vulnerable since…Redbeard.”

John was puzzled, but nodded, allowing Sherlock to continue.

“Victor was my roommate last year at uni. We built an in-room chemistry lab together. Over much shared time, and many shared interests, we became…intimate.”

John kept his breathing even and measured, his jealousy restrained, and nodded, encouraging Sherlock to continue.

“I spent last year’s winter break at Victor’s family estate since I wouldn’t be missed at my own. While there, I deduced some information about Victor’s father that was a bit…not good. It became apparent that all would feel more comfortable if I left, and, with a week remaining before classes resumed, I did.

“Victor called me three days later, reporting that his father had died of a stroke, seemingly a direct result of my revealing old skeletons.”

Sherlock sighed and ran the heel of his hand over his eyes. “Victor turned to drugs. One of…one of our professors became our dealer. The second half of the year passed in a haze, until…until Victor overdosed.”

John watched in total agony as slow tears began leaking from pale blue eyes. Sherlock lifted his wrist, again bringing attention to the pinkish-white scar decorating his vasculature. “The rest is, perhaps, best left unsaid.” He closed his eyes tightly and turned his face into their shared pillow.

“Sherlock…. _Sherlock_. Look at me.” John turned his face so their eyes connected, then lifted his pale left arm and placed soft, reverent kisses at the elbow and wrist. “I’m not going to say it doesn’t matter, because every bit of you…your past, _your_ _scars_ …they matter. But these marks…they’re _beautiful_. You’re beautiful. Because of what you’ve overcome.”

Sherlock shook his head minutely, then shyly captured John’s lips, cupping that face in his palm. Ending the kiss with several small pecks, Sherlock made sure to hold eye contact and murmured, “John Watson, you keep me right.”

John returned the warm, comforting kisses and sighed softly. Sherlock nestled his dark curls beneath John’s chin, and, both enjoying the gusting of warm breath against bare skin, they drifted off to sleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No visual aids, lovelies. I'm sure you can supply those for yourselves this chapter!
> 
> We're not quite done yet. I'm going to try to squeeze one more case in before we close out this story, so stay tuned for the next chapter!


	7. The Finals Problem

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just when it seems that everything is perfect, John's relationship with Sherlock and his confidence in his medical skill hit a low point.

Two months later as he stepped out of the last exam of his term, John stood still for a second and just breathed, admiring the whirlwind his life had become. Intercalated with his medical studies were cases with Sherlock, _dates_ with Sherlock, and many nights spent in each others’ beds, location depending on where exhaustion overtook them.

He might have expected some crisis regarding his sexuality, but he must have done some heavy lifting in that regard when Harry came out, because, quite simply, it was… _all fine_. More than fine, actually. It was wonderful. His life was twisted with Sherlock’s as tightly as the double helix. And, to expand a horrible medical metaphor, each encoded line of John’s personality seemed to find its perfect match in Sherlock.

_God,_ John thought, shaking his head slightly as he zipped up the neck of his jacket. _I sound besotted._

His studies were going smoothly as well. John’s replacement standardized patient was a nice antiquities student named Soo-Lin. She didn’t antagonize him intellectually or excite him sexually, which was really all for the better. His clinical skills were advancing, he remained in the top third of his class, and his confidence as a physician-in-training continued to grow.

The occasional acknowledgement from his taciturn father had grown less important as his connection with the consulting detective deepened. He had learned to read the meaning beneath Sherlock’s barbed statements calling him an idiot, as those were often followed by kisses and declarations that he was, instead, a “conductor of light”.

And for as isolated and antisocial as Sherlock considered himself, a relationship with him brought several new acquaintances into John’s life. Now, instead of beers with Mike and Sarah nearly every night, John found himself rifling through body parts with Molly Hooper, sipping Scotch with Greg Lestrade, and ingesting delicious biscuits and tea made by Sherlock’s dorm mother, Martha Hudson.

And then there was Mycroft.

As prone as his boyfriend (the label still brought a smile to John’s lips) was to exaggeration, Sherlock’s dislike of his brother seemed to John, who had experienced several long meetings with The Government, completely justified. Deep down, John understood Mycroft’s wish to protect his younger sibling, given his history of addiction and depression, but John believed in being transparent, forthright in his support. He did not take well to black cars, government intervention, abductions to secret locations, or invitations to spy on Sherlock.

John’s peaceful walk to his flat was disturbed by a car from a familiar all-black fleet pulling up next to him. John sighed as he checked his phone. No message from Sherlock, which wasn’t all that surprising, given they had agreed to give each other space to prepare for exams. There was, however, a text from “MH”: _Save the hassle and get in._

Setting his mouth into its traditional “Mycroft frown”, John wrenched open the back door of the car and slid onto the seat next to the suited man and his ridiculous umbrella.

“Mr. Watson. Greetings of the season,” Mycroft bowed his head slightly as the car began to move. “I regret that our conversation cannot be more celebratory today, but I find my usual jovial nature has been impaired by the state of my brother.”

John paused mid-snort (the idea of anyone describing Mycroft as jovial was laughable) to turn his gaze from the window to Sherlock’s brother, his brow knit in confusion. “What? _What’s wrong with Sherlock?_ I saw him three days ago, just before class on Monday. We agreed to radio silence for the duration of finals.” He fumbled his phone out of his pocket and opened the text thread that had been quiet for several days. No messages, especially not the code word for distress, _Vatican cameos_.

“I thought we had an understanding, John. In exchange for my… _butting out_ of your private affairs with my brother, you were to keep him safe.”

“I don’t understand what you’re trying to say,” John ground out, his left fist clenching on his thigh. “Sherlock knows he can always call me. We had plans to have dinner tonight, then drop in on Lestrade to see if the holidays had pushed anyone to interesting crimes. He was…fine when I last saw him.”

“If he was and continues to be _fine,_ I suppose I have no reason to be concerned with the alarming phone message I received from Mrs. Martha Hudson?” Mycroft opened his phone and played a brief message from Sherlock’s de facto housekeeper.

She sounded distraught as she recounted the state Sherlock had dropped into, refusing to leave his room, his only visitor a fellow chemistry student who had been absent since Victor’s overdose. She hadn’t seen him eat or drink in the three days John had been gone.

As the message ended, the car pulled up outside Sherlock’s dormitory. Mycroft leaned across John to open his door then returned his gaze to his phone, simply saying, “I’ll wait here in case you should admit you need assistance…or medical transport.”

John adjusted his bag over squared shoulders and passed through the main entry of the building. He ran up the stairs to floor three and down to the room at the end of the hallway. As he passed the mid-point of the hall, Martha Hudson popped out of her door.

“Oh John, thank heavens. He’s in _such_ a state. I’ve been checking on him a couple times a day…I have a key to all the rooms, for safety, you understand. I leave him tea and sandwiches, but you know how he can be…I don’t think he’s eaten in three days.” Her wrinkled hand worried the bow at her collar and tears pooled in her eyes.

John stopped to place a kiss on Mrs. Hudson’s forehead and muttered a brief reassurance that it couldn’t be as bad as it seemed. At the end of the hall, he used his key to open Sherlock’s door.

The sight before him caused John to drop his bag. Sherlock looked… _horrible_. He was shivering in his twisted sheets, pajamas spotted with moisture. Chapped, dry lips contrasted with a glistening forehead and sweaty curls plastered tight against his brow. John thought that his boyfriend had never looked so vulnerable, so young. Cautiously, he stepped closer. Sherlock opened his eyes, presenting John with reddened sclerae and pinpoint pupils.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong? You’re ill. Let’s get a doctor.” John pulled his cellular from his pocket and had uni health services halfway dialed before Sherlock’s weak laugh stopped him.

“Don’t be _silly_ , John. I don’t need a _doctor_ , at least not one with any more skill than you.”

“Shit, Sherlock…are you _high_?” John began shuffling through the piles on Sherlock’s desk and dresser in search of any paraphernalia, stopping only when a cold, hard voice reprimanded him.

“Put that down! I hate to have my things touched!”

John turned, letting the hurt show clearly on his face. “Sherlock, if you were anywhere near this kind of thing, you should have called.”

“Oh, calm down, John. I’m not an addict. I use occasionally to heighten my thought processes…and you _knew_ my methods. It was easy enough to reconnect with Professor Smith.”

“Culverton Smith? Holy _fuck_ , I’ll kill him.” John, mouth agape, turned next to Sherlock’s nightstand, ruffling through drawers for some clue. “What did you take? _What did he give you?”_

Sherlock weakly waved his right hand, shifting away from John as if his nearness were repulsive. “Oh, who knows. Victor and I have always left him to his discretion.”

John abandoned his search, tossing his hands in the air with a frustrated exhale. “Jesus, Sherlock! I can’t take you to A&E…you’d be arrested. And _I_ can’t care for you until I know what you’ve taken.” His fingers pulled at his short, blond hair as he fought his tears. He searched Sherlock’s face, but saw no answer there. “Sod it. I’ll go find Professor Smith.”

“Yes, excellent decision, John. If I am to have medical attention whether I will or not, let me at least have someone in whom I have _confidence_.” Sherlock spit the words disdainfully as he turned to face the wall, drawing his dressing gown around his skinny frame. “Facts are facts, John, and, after all, you _are_ only a medical student with a very limited experience and mediocre qualifications. Go fetch Professor Smith. Bid him hurry, but don’t wait around for him. Mycroft might present himself if you are not quick to come back.”

John swore he felt his heart break in two. His stomach sank, and he let himself back out into the dormitory hallway without a word. John finally allowed his tears to fall as he entered the quadrangle in front of Sherlock’s housing unit and set off across campus, still intent on saving the man who didn’t love him back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, no visual aids today. Photobucket is being contrary, and I don't have the will to grapple with it.


	8. The Lying Detective

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John confronts Professor Smith in an effort to save Sherlock from whatever drugs he's taken. But does Sherlock need saving?

Culverton Smith turned, pipette in one hand, pushing his goggles up with the other, as John barged into his lab. The heavy wooden door slammed against the wall hard enough to rattle a rack of test tubes across the room. Cold, dark eyes moved over the small blond student before the professor returned his attention to his experiment. “Office hours are over,” he recited dismissively, almost an afterthought.

John sniffed like a bull taunted with a red flag and crossed the space in three steps. Fists in Smith’s lab coat, he pulled the professor’s face level with his and whispered, “Sherlock Holmes is gorked out of his mind, and I know the drugs came from you.”

The taller man’s face remained impassive and John came back to himself, releasing his collar and stepping back. He fell automatically into parade rest and worked to control his breathing then spoke in what he hoped passed for a normal tone of voice. “Since I don’t know what he’s taken, perhaps he’s right that _you_ are the only man in London who can help.”

When Smith didn’t respond, instead turning to organize his lab bench, John raised his voice just enough to be heard in the hallway. “Is it the same as what you gave Victor Trevor?” He stepped closer, further increasing his volume, “Do you want _Sherlock_ to overdose, too?”

Finally, with John back in whispering distance, the professor faced him again. John scanned his adversary’s face for any sign of guilt, and, seeing none, added in an icy whisper, “But then again, I don’t suppose it’d be good business, killing off too many customers…Oh, I mean…students.”

John saw a flash (interest? fear?) in Smith’s eyes. He nodded slightly, then puffed out his chest and spoke precisely, his tone brooking no argument. “Maybe you should come to his rescue. You know, bring the antidote…if you don’t want the entire university to know about your side-business.”

 

***********************

 

John arrived back at Sherlock’s dorm mere minutes later, nearly sobbing with relief when Sherlock seemed improved, perhaps even lucid. The characteristic gleam in his eye returned as he steepled his fingers against his lips. He nodded, closed his eyes, and gestured to a stoppered glass bottle on his bedside table.

John felt his vision go red then angrily grabbed Sherlock’s hands and roughly pulled him up to sitting. “You utter _cock_! You had that here all along? This is all we need to help you! Please, Sherlock, let’s get you to student health.”

Sherlock opened soft eyes and laid his first finger across John’s lips, hushing him. They listened as Mrs. Hudson approached the end of the hallway, chatting nervously to Professor Smith, relating just how ill her charge had been.

Their eyes locked, and Sherlock seemed to come to a decision. He stood, grabbing John by the shoulders and kissing him lightning-quick before pulling him into a tight hug and whispering into his ear, “Quick, John…if you love me, hide.”

John was halfway to the closet, content to follow Sherlock’s command without question, when those words settled in his head. He turned back, the inquiry plain on his face. Sherlock quirked a half-smile.

“Please, John, _do you_ …?” John’s eyes widened and Sherlock realized his mistake. “I mean, _will_ you? Hide?”

John swallowed, speechless. He felt heat spread through his chest and moisture collect in his eyes. He smiled broadly as he stepped backward into the closet, closing the door all but a crack to allow him to view Sherlock’s face. The detective arranged himself back on the bed, reclining with artful malaise.

Smith knocked lightly and, not waiting for a response, opened the door to casually stroll through. He blithely picked up the bottle, clicking his tongue at how little had been used before leaning down to speak into Sherlock’s left ear.

“Holmes, can you hear me?” Sherlock roused slightly, letting his eyes open for a second before fluttering back closed.

“What’s the meaning of sending your _personal assistant_ to threaten me? Are you really so weak that you can’t handle _heroin_ anymore? You loved it when you were with Victor.”

Smith straightened and opened his coat to slide the drugs into the breast pocket of his shirt. He reached down to take Sherlock’s pulse, eyes lazily watching the second hand on his watch. “Oh, wait, that was a seven-percent solution, wasn’t it? If this came from Moriarty, it’ll be nearer to ten.” He sighed and flung Sherlock’s wrist aside.

“I suppose that will teach me to supply product of this quality to the _fragile_ members of the upper class.” Smith ran his fingers along Sherlock’s sweaty forehead and John had to restrain himself from flinging open the closet door.

“Won’t be long for you now, I wager. I’ll just turn out the light so you can languish in peace while I find Mr. John Watson and…ensure his silence as well.”

The professor moved back to the door, casting one last glance at the languishing detective before flipping the light-switch. He placed his hand on the door handle, ready to leave.

John felt his body coil with intention as he readied himself to pounce on the hateful man. He couldn’t be arsed to care about his likely expulsion…because what was London, what was _life_ without Sherlock? If he could play some part in bringing down the man who had repeatedly endangered his boyfriend, it would truly be worth any wound.

Before John could move, the room door opened forcefully, flooding the small dormitory with light and concussing the professor. Lestrade stepped through the entry, Mrs. Hudson just behind, and the two took in the scene, jaws slack

Sherlock climbed out of bed, somehow graceful even in these ridiculous circumstances. He pulled a mini-recorder from his dressing gown and pushed a button to replay the conversation for the DI.

John extricated himself from his hiding spot, cast an admiring glance at Sherlock, and presented his left palm for Lestrade’s handcuffs. He bent to secure them around Culverton Smith’s wrists then moved to help Sherlock sit on the bed so he could perform a cursory examination.

 

***********************

 

Barely five minutes later, Mrs. Hudson prodded Lestrade out the door, imploring him to _let the poor dears rest_.

Sherlock and John were alone. John found that he couldn’t stop running his fingers through dark curls as he looked into eyes graced with normally sized, readily reactive pupils. He kissed the now-dry forehead then leaned their faces together and spoke softly, “If that was heroin, you didn’t take any.”

“Of course not, John!”

“You were _faking_ ,” he murmured over a shaky laugh. “Why were you faking, you incredible, terrible, amazing man?” John punctuated each adjective with a kiss to alternating cheeks.

Sherlock settled himself into his accustomed thinking pose, preparing to bask in reflected pride as he revealed his logic.

“My dear Dr. Watson…malingering is a subject upon which I have sometimes thought of writing a monograph. By pretending to have taken the illicit substance provided by my professor and previous supplier, I had hoped I might surprise a confession. Based on Smith’s unresponsiveness to Victor’s overdose, I knew that he was unlikely to attend mine unless it involved a dramatic confrontation.” His cupid bow lips curled softly, “Thus the necessity of involving you in the scheme.

“Mrs. Hudson was right in all the particulars. James Moriarty _did_ visit me earlier this week. He left the small package you saw. And, indeed, I have not eaten or drunk in three days.” He turned to the bedside table and retrieved two small containers. He passed John the pilocarpine eye drops and petroleum jelly. “For the constricted pupils and sweaty complexion.”

“Sherlock…” John turned the containers over in his hands, shaking his head in confusion.

“Does that not explain why I could not let you nearer, John? However skilled my disguise might have been, I could not fool _you_. Do you really imagine that I have so little respect for your medical talents?” Sherlock kept his eyes on the other man’s hands for this last revelation then shyly glanced up at John from beneath his lashes.

What John saw in those pale, beautiful eyes caused him to shudder out a breath and collapse backward onto the mattress. Laughing, he reached up to caress Sherlock’s cheek.

“You great berk,” John whispered, eyes revealing his sentiment before the words passed his lips. “I love you, too.”

Sherlock ‘s eyes widened along with his smile, and he clambered over John, straddling his waist and leaning down for a sweet kiss that quickly turned heated.

A minute later, John turned his head to the side, ignoring Sherlock’s whine and clearing his throat to declare, “Actually, I’ve been thinking of writing a monograph as well.”

Sherlock looked at him, an adorably foreign expression of confusion on his face.

“But you were right. I do have very limited experience.” John paused and placed a quick peck on Sherlock’s moue. “I find that I need to engage in some… _clinical experimentation_ first.”

“Oh really?” Sherlock kissed down John’s jawline, pausing to nip at his skittering pulse. His tone betrayed his distraction as he asked, “What would be the subject of this monograph?”

John grunted and contracted his abdomen to flip them as a unit. He pressed Sherlock’s arms above his head and grazed his fingers across the tie-front of the man’s pajama bottoms before leaning down to murmur in his ear, “The final physical exam skill of the term.”

Sherlock groaned and arched into John’s touch. “Oh? Which skill is that, Dr. Watson?”

John pushed his hand beneath the waistband of the pants and slid it around so his palm cupped Sherlock’s right buttock and his fingers slipped casually over the gluteal cleft before he leaned down to lap lightly at his nippple.

“The prostate exam.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that, dear reader, is the end. Thanks for coming along on this journey. I don't think I ever imagined that I would write fanfic at all, let alone 15K of it. So thanks to the authors I love and my tumblr friends for inspiring and encouraging me. So much love!

**Author's Note:**

> I'm sweeter-than-cynicism over on tumblr, if you wanna drop by and say hi. :)


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